


Debriefing

by snarkypants



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-09
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:32:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkypants/pseuds/snarkypants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Number One, Captain of the Yorktown, is at Starfleet HQ for a meeting, Pike decides it may be finally time to make his move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place while Pike is working as a Starfleet recruiter while waiting to take command of the Enterprise.

**Debriefing** by snarkypants

Chapter One

 

 

He lingers after the debriefing; One is gathering her PADD and data solids. She doesn’t need them, but it makes the higher-ups feel better about trusting her eidetic memory if they see her consulting artificial memory from time to time.

 

He thinks he may have taught her that.

 

She tucks the materials into an attaché case and passes them to her yeoman, who spent the meeting at a seat by the wall, not rating a place at the table. “Stow this in my quarters, and then you’ve got 48 hours liberty. Try to stay out of jail,” she says, with equal amounts of amusement and chiding in her voice, and the kid, impossibly young, all Adam’s apple and elbows, blushes. “Dismissed.”

 

Chris moves even closer to her, slowly, almost casually skirting the large oval table and dodging the few clots of brass that haven’t yet pissed off _en masse_ to drink their dinners.

 

One’s XO, Louw, dips his head almost deferentially as she speaks to him in a low voice, and Chris wishes suddenly that he hadn’t recommended Louw to her when she was selecting candidates for her bridge crew. He’s easily fifteen centimeters taller than One and towers over her, and some women, especially _tall_ women, find such a difference in height attractive.

 

“I have my communicator, Mr. Louw. If you require anything…”

 

Louw looks over One’s shoulder at Chris, grins. “We’ll work very hard at requiring nothing at all, Captain,” he says. “Captain Pike, good to see you, sir.”

 

“Commander,” Chris says, nodding a greeting. One bristles a little, tension tightening her muscles.

 

“That will be all, thank you, Commander,” One says, and Louw leaves them. She turns to look Chris square in the eyes, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

 

“Captain Pike,” she says.

 

“Captain Yorktown.” This is a formality, he thinks. He hopes. They haven’t spent any time together since she took command of _Yorktown_ and left him on Earth to wait for _Enterprise_ to be completed. Without the barrier of command between them, though, it has been long understood that he will pursue her romantically and that she will welcome his pursuit.

 

They have never spoken of it.

 

“How’s my ship?”

 

“The one you abandoned for a younger, prettier model?”

 

“The very one. We _are_ talking about the ship, right?” he asks, a little hesitant until he sees the wry tilt of her mouth. “Your hair looks good short.”

 

She reaches up, self-consciously, to smooth the curls at her nape. “It was not a deliberate change, believe me,” she says. “I had to shave my head for a ceremonial function, and if you make a single Deltan joke I’ll never speak to you again.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. When did this happen?”

 

“A few weeks ago. You were curiously silent during the debriefing,” she says; he should be used to her abrupt shifts in subject by now, but he still blinks and stammers for a moment.

 

“You had everything well in hand; you didn’t need my two cents.”

 

“Need? No; I was curious to hear how you might have handled the situation differently, though.”

 

“I don’t think I _would_ have handled it differently.”

 

“Really, Christopher.” It’s not a question.

 

“Chris,” he corrects her. “Look, you had a ton of variables to account for; dozens of things could have gone wrong. The important thing is that they didn’t.”

 

“It was too close.”

 

He nods. “Granted. That’s known as ‘getting lucky’, One.”

 

“I don’t believe in luck.”

 

“And you, a sailor,” he says, clucking his tongue at her. “You’re not always going to be able to do the most correct thing; sometimes you’ll have to do the least awful thing. And you know that.”

 

That hits home; he can tell by the way her lips press into a thin line. He stands to the side so she precedes him through the door.

 

“I wanted to _thump_ Deto,” she says in an undertone. “Smarmy prick.” Her voice hints at Louw’s South African accent, which is where she probably heard the epithet; she never used it when she was under his command.

 

He grins, despite the sudden clenching sensation in his belly, because Commander Deto _is_ a smarmy prick. He’s been given the nickname “BOB,” for “Back-Office Bitch,” and not without reason. “You eviscerated him very neatly.”

 

“That wasn’t my intention; I _meant_ to make him see reason.”

 

“Well, you can lead a horse to water,” he says, and she snorts. “I’m not cheering you up any, am I?” he asks. “Everyone in there—everyone with significant spacetime on their logs, anyway—could see that you made the best of an untenable situation. You took minimal damage and no casualties. That counts as a win.”

 

“But where can I _improve_ , Chris? I don’t need ‘cheering up’.”

 

He shrugs. “Trust your gut more.”

 

She scoffs.

 

“I’m serious. You can do everything technically right and still lose crew members. You can do everything technically wrong and still win a fight.” She sighs, and he grins at her. “Still not what you wanted to hear is it? Sorry; how’s this: ‘You’re brilliant and everyone in that room wanted you.’”

 

She gives him a sour look. “If you think _that’s_ what I want to hear, you’re—”

 

“Has Louw made his move yet?” he asks; it comes out nice and casual. It doesn’t hurt that a former crewmate nods and waves a greeting to them across the corridor as they pass, and they return the greeting.

 

“Which move?” He gives her a significant look, and she shrugs. “What makes you think he’s interested, Chris?”

 

He laughs but there’s not much humor in it. “He’s male.”

 

“Ah, yes, because I’m so very _irresistible_.” She doesn’t roll her eyes at him, but he can tell she wants to.

 

“I’ve always thought so.”

 

Her eyebrows go up. “That’s news to me; you’ve resisted me quite successfully for years now.”

                                                        

It’s his turn to blush. Their footsteps slow and then stop as they approach the ‘lifts. “Join me for dinner.” He gets the tone right; it sounds spontaneous, even though he made reservations and secured transporter access days ago. It’s not quite a question but nothing like an order.

 

She’s standing there, her hands clasped behind her back, looking like a recruiting poster. The disparity in their height isn’t as pronounced as between her and Louw, but she still has to look up at him. “I’d like that,” she says, and the stern line of her mouth softens into an almost-smile; she leads the way onto the Turbolift, and he follows.

 

“You’ll probably want to get out of that uniform,” Chris says to her, belatedly wincing as he realizes how it might sound to her, to the chief petty officer sharing the ‘lift.

 

One, bless her, takes the statement at face value. “I do, actually.”

 

The chief appears to be completely indifferent to their conversation, so Chris can only conclude that he is hanging on every word.

 

“Will you need to go back to the ship, or to your lodging…”

 

“My bag is in a locker at the Space Port.”

 

“You can bring it to my place and get changed.” They’re on street level now, and as soon as the ‘lift doors open they exit, leaving behind the chief. Chris risks a glance back over his shoulder, and the chief gives him a cheeky thumbs-up as the doors slide shut again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Debriefing** by snarkypants

Chapter Two

 

 

They’re at his apartment.

 

“It’s actually a sublet,” he’s quick to tell her. “Nothing inside is mine.”

 

“Sounds cozy,” she says.

 

“The owner is on the _Potemkin_ , deep space assignment. She’ll be back a few months after I ship out on _Enterprise_.” The proximity lock releases and the door slides open. “Well, uh, please come in.”

 

The apartment is filled with Victorian antiques and reproductions, none of it particularly comfortable. The spindly-legged couch looks as though it would collapse under the weight of a lapdog. “I don’t spend much time here,” he says. “I use it for sleeping and showering and spend the rest of the time at my office.”

 

She looks around, her expression wary. “That’s understandable.” She puts her bag down on the floor beside the couch rather than risk the couch’s stability.

 

He looks at the busy wallpaper and heavy draperies festooned with fringe, trying to see it the way One would. “I think the owner’s an historian. It’s not what I’d choose for myself, but it’s somewhat functional. And the price was right.”

 

“What _would_ you choose for yourself?” she asks, cocking her head to the side.

 

What would he choose for himself? Is this a test? Is he supposed to profess undying love for Korean-Vulcan Fusion? Early 22nd Century Moderno? Is he supposed to be tasteful or truthful? “I don’t know; something comfortable, at least. Something you can put your feet on.”

 

She nods as if it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever heard. He never thought he’d spend an evening with Number One talking about interior decoration, but he’s starting to warm to the subject. “I’ve never had much more than crew quarters or a dorm room to furnish, and even then Starfleet made most of the decisions. Would you like something to drink?”

 

“What have you got?”

 

“Uh… water and beer, I think, and _mayyyyybe_ some Scotch,” he says, looking in a cabinet. “No, sorry, no Scotch.” He pulls a bottle of milk out of the chiller and sniffs, recoiling.

 

“Water, please.” She follows him in the direction of the kitchen but stops en route, morbidly fascinated by the furniture. She runs a finger gingerly over a Gothic spire on the back of a dining chair, as though assessing its potential lethality. “What an obscene waste of wood.”

 

He hands her a glass (clean, he checked) of water. “If you think that’s bad you should see the bed.”

 

One blinks. He can practically see the thoughts scrolling behind her eyes, like the ending credits of a holovid. “Oh,” she says weakly, taking a quick gulp of water.

 

“That’s not a pass, One.”

 

Well, _that_ didn’t help; she squares her shoulders and her face becomes a mask of neutrality. “No, of course not.”

 

“I mean, I thought it would amuse you.” He shoves an impatient hand through his hair. “Oh, fuck it, do you want to see the bed or not?”

 

“With an offer like that how can I refuse?”

 

“Stay right here for a minute; I just need to make sure that I left it shipshape.”

 

He calls her to the bedroom, and the bed really is more obscene than the chairs. The oak headboard extends two meters up the wall, with an oak half-tester hanging over the bed like the shadow of doom. Every square inch is covered with ornamentation. Chris’s simple beige linen coverlet looks like a visitor from another time, which he supposes it is.

 

“You _sleep_ here?”

 

“Most days.”

 

She shudders. “It’s very… heavy.”

 

“That’s part of the reason I didn’t haul all of this stuff into storage. You want to get changed?” They are both still wearing their dress uniforms, green-gold blouses with decorations at the breast.

 

“I’ll get my bag.”

 

\------------

 

How pathetic is it that he’s titillated at the thought of her undressing in his bedroom?

 

He busies himself in the bathroom, tidying up, putting away towels, throwing a pair of underwear into the recycler chute.

 

She emerges in civvies that are remarkably similar to her uniforms in both cut and color: slim black trousers, sage-green tunic. The tunic has a v-neck deep enough to reveal the shadow of her cleavage, and instead of boots she’s wearing black ballet slippers. A green ribbon holds back her short hair. “All yours,” she says, indicating that his bedroom is free again.

 

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he says.

 

Rather than wad her dress uniform up into a ball and throw it into her bag he sees that she’s hung it over the (obscene, wooden) wardrobe door, the creases perfectly aligned. He shakes his head. His own dress uniform doesn’t rate the same consideration; he pitches it into the recycler.

 

\------------

 

She perches uncomfortably on the edge of the spindly sofa seat. If she thought she might learn more about Chris by seeing his Earthside quarters she was seriously mistaken. His cabin on _Yorktown_ , perhaps one-fifth the size of this place, had more of his personality on display than this entire apartment. Aside from a few holos on the wall (previous crews and ships, his parents, none that she hasn’t seen before) and his acoustic guitar on a stand in the corner, anyone could live here. She’s not a little disappointed.

 

Chris’s choice of civilian attire reminds her of his instructor uniform: charcoal trousers and sweater. She laughs. “Look at us: what would we wear if we hadn’t spent the past fifteen years being dressed by Starfleet?”

 

“Fifteen? Try twenty.”

 

“You look very attractive in your civvies.”

 

“That’s supposed to be my line,” he says.

 

One of her eyebrows goes up. “Then use it.”

 

“You’re beautiful.” He looks at her like he’s really seeing her, and that’s such an improvement over their time together on _Yorktown_ that it’s almost worth it, losing him to Earth and _Enterprise_.

 

She smiles. “Thank you. So what’s for dinner?”

 

“I’ve got reservations for my favorite restaurant on Earth. Have you ever been to Rio de Janeiro?”

 

“In Brazil?” Her expression must be rather wary because he immediately sets about putting her at ease.

 

“It can get pretty wild during Carnival, but that won’t start up for a month yet. You’ll love it: it overlooks the beach and Sugarloaf Mountain. The food is incredible; they’re famous for their _Moqueca_ _de Peixe_.” He looks up at the chronometer. “And we should be heading for the Spaceport right about now.”

 

“Lead the way, then.”

 

\------------

 

They catch a flitter from Chris’s apartment.

 

“If you don’t mind some shoptalk, it’s time for FieldEx assignments, and I’ve got a cadet who would benefit from the Yorktown Treatment.” He has to raise his voice a little to be heard over the whine of the engine.

 

“Is it that time of year already?”

 

He gives her a sour look. “Yes; I know we ground-pounders reckon time differently than you space jocks.”

 

“That was the furthest thing from my mind, although you do make a valid point,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “Tell me about this cadet.”

 

“Name’s Jim Kirk.” He waits for the surname to register with One.

 

It doesn’t take long. “Coincidence?”

 

“Nope. George and Winona Kirk’s son.”

 

She’s silent for a moment. “What is he like?”

 

“Probably a genius.” He sighs, exasperated. “Possibly a sociopath.”

 

“You don’t mean that.”

 

“No, I don’t. He would never have made it through the psych evals if he were.”

 

“Ah, now there’s a ringing endorsement.”

 

“Kid’s a wild card. Determined, competitive, damaged.”

 

“How is this different from any other cadet?”

 

Pike grimaces. “You’ll see when you meet him.”

 

“ _When?_ I haven’t agreed to anything yet, Chris.”

 

“One, there’s a helluva lot of raw potential there, and if left to his own devices he’ll just get bored and arrogant.” Chris checks himself. “More bored and more arrogant. I can’t let him go on a two-week boondoggle, and you’re the only one I really trust to put him through his paces.”

 

She puts both elbows on the table between their seats and rests her chin on her clasped hands. “He’s important to you,” she says, tenderness softening her expression.

 

“I feel responsible for him. I recruited him.”

 

“Ah, yes, because recruiters care so much about cadets,” she teases. When he opens his mouth to protest, she presses her index finger to his lips. “You’ve sold me, Chris. Assign Cadet Kirk to _Yorktown_ for his FieldEx.”

 

He grins at her and presses a kiss to the palm of her hand; he doesn’t release it. “I owe you one.”

 

She swallows, mock-scowling so she appears annoyed rather than flustered. “You owe me _many_.”

 

“Fair enough,” he says, still holding her hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

 

“What do you mean, ‘the Rio de Janeiro transporter station is closed’?”

 

“Sorry, sir; it’s their low season. They shut down at 2200 until a few weeks before Carnival.”

 

Chris looks around for a chronometer. “It’s only 1820.”

 

The transporter technician gives him a pained look. “It’s 1820 _here_ , sir. 2220 in Rio de Janeiro.”

 

Chris exhales slowly, looking up at the ceiling of the Spaceport; surprisingly enough, it’s handsomely embellished, and it distracts him enough to wonder, _why?_

 

Oh, right. To distract pissed-off would-be travelers.

 

“Is there any way you could just _aim_ us at Rio de Janeiro…”

 

The technician’s expression goes from pained to mulish. “I could lose my license for that, sir.”

 

“No, of course.” He sighs and adjusts his expression to something approximating friendly disappointment; the technician is just doing his job, after all, and doing it according to regulation, even when faced with an angry superior officer. “Thanks.”

 

“Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful, Captain.”

 

He vidcomms The French Laundry to enquire about last-minute cancellations. The maîtresse d’hotel is too politic to laugh at him, but the tilt of her eyebrows conveys an entire lifetime’s worth of scorn.

 

“It doesn’t have to be extravagant,” One says from over his shoulder.

 

“I promised you a nice dinner.” He rakes his hand through his hair, increasingly agitated. “How do you feel about Top of the Mark? Delmonico’s?”

 

“I’ll settle for _food_.”

 

He hesitates for a moment, and then nods. “Perhaps inspiration will strike en route,” he concedes.

 

On their walk back out to the flitter stand they pass a taco wagon, and One stops him with a hand on his arm. “Let’s get something here.”

 

He gives her an incredulous look. “Really?”

 

“Chris, do you want to _dine_ , or do you want to _refuel_? For my part, I intend to burn off a lot of calories later.”

 

His belly flip-flops at the determined look in her eyes, and she continues. “Specifically, I intend to burn off a lot of calories with _you_ later. Horizontally. Or vertically if the mood so takes us.”

 

He becomes aware that she is staring at him, now slightly less determined, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Uh. Okay.”

 

“But we don’t have to,” she says, a little too quickly. Her pale skin, already slightly flushed, blooms with color from her chest to her forehead, and she turns back toward the flitter stand.

 

Nearly of its own volition his hand reaches out to grab her wrist; she’s not expecting it and her momentum spins her on the ball of her foot to face him again. “Yes, yes, yes we do. We absolutely do.” His other hand lands on her hip, steadying her.

 

“Oh.” She blinks a few times and looks up at him. “It took you long enough.”

 

“Yeah, it did,” he says.

 

“Is this how you react to unexpected stimulus these days, because—”

 

Whatever she was going to say is lost when he closes the space between them and just plants one on her. Her mouth opens beneath his and he groans as he tastes her for the first time; she tastes familiar, as though he’d known her flavor once but had forgotten it until just now. He doesn’t think this was quite what Proust had in mind, but he’ll take it.

 

She’s pulling him closer, her hands in his hair, and they’re practically soldered together; he might have his hands on her ass, hauling her in tight. Fortunately they’re in their civvies, because this could easily be construed as Conduct Unbecoming.

 

Someone wolf whistles, and they break apart, blinking dizzily and breathing hard.

 

After a minute or two of recovery time he purchases barbacoa tacos and a couple of beers, and they sit hip-to-hip at the shabby little picnic table that the taco wagon guy has provided for his customers. They’re the only customers at the moment; flitters are taking off and landing meters away, and passengers are streaming into and out of the Spaceport.

 

When he looks up from the remains of his taco she’s got a streak of gaudy orange grease running from the corner of her mouth to her chin; he figures it’s pretty close to body temperature because she doesn’t seem to feel it at all.

 

He reaches out, swipes with his thumb from her chin up, and without thinking about it sucks the grease from his thumb.

 

Her eyes go dark, pupils blowing up like storm clouds on the high desert.

 

“You had—there was grease,” he says, stammering a little. “On your face.”

 

“Where?” she asks, and he traces the path again, stopping at her full lower lip. Her mouth is open and her breathing is shallow and quick. He presses her lip, pulling it down, exposing the inside of her mouth, her even white teeth.

 

He isn’t aware of exerting any other force on her, but she’s close enough that he can feel the humidity from her breath on his cheek. She closes her lips around his thumb and sucks hard, sending a jolt right to his cock.

 

Any plans for restraint go right out the airlock.

 

Chris swallows. “My place?” he asks.

 

“Yes. Now.”

 

He grimaces, clearing his throat. “Give me a minute or two, or we’ll scandalize the Spaceport.”

 

She just raises an eyebrow at him. “We _are_ in San Francisco.”

 

“You have a point,” he says, but he still takes his time getting to his feet.

 

“I’ll block for you,” she says, and she does, foreshadowing him all the way to the flitter stand.

 

It’s an agonizingly slow, and silent, trip back to his apartment.

 

She precedes him through the door of his apartment and heads straight to the bedroom, shedding clothing as she goes. When he reaches the room, her top is off and she’s shimmying out of her trousers; they puddle on the floor next to her shoes.

 

“You’re not wasting any time,” he says, and she laughs.

 

“I generally don’t.”

 

He moves closer, his gaze locked on her body. She reaches behind her back to unfasten her bra, and he stops her. “Let me.”

 

Her arms fall to her sides, shoulders back. ‘Statuesque’ doesn’t even begin to describe the effect; she has the hourglass curves of the ancient pin-up girls, from back before the last Earth world war (in his opinion, the best hour of the entire semester of Pre-Warp Earth Art Appreciation at the Academy). Her bra and panties are a dull, gunmetal grey, of utilitarian construction, but no less attractive for it.

 

He takes a steadying breath and strokes her shoulder. “You know, I had all of this planned, One. Romantic dinner, luxurious hotel, exotic location…”

 

“Consider this my contingency plan, then,” she said. “That was one of my skills when I was your executive officer.”

 

“Tacos at the Spaceport and my Victorian freakshow of an apartment constitute a pretty lousy contingency.”

 

“The tacos were delicious, and you have four walls and a bed; if you want anything more elaborate for a contingency plan you’ll have to give me a bit more to work with. And take your sweater off.”

 

He pulls the garment over his head, tosses it aside and kisses her. “As always, you exceed my expectations; our options, however...”

 

“Chris, we’re here, we’re alone, we’re undressing; what more do we need? You’re acting as though I’m a timorous virgin who needs to be seduced.”

 

He assumes a crestfallen expression. “You’re not?”

 

“Timorous? Hardly.”

 

“Not a virgin?”

 

“That doesn’t even merit a response.”

 

He grins at her. “I am. Be gentle with me?” He bats his eyelashes, and she puts her arms around his neck, using minimal pressure to back him up to the bed. He’s expecting it when she pushes him down, but the breath _whooshes_ out of his lungs just the same. Before he’s recovered she’s straddling him, grinding herself against him.

 

“Gentle enough for you?” she asks before she sticks her tongue in his mouth, stifling his reply. He takes advantage of her distracted state to open the fastener on her bra, and she smiles against his lips. “Ooh, nicely done, sir.”

 

He peels the garment away from her, slides it from her arms and drops it to the floor. Her breasts fill his cupped hands and he strokes her puckered nipples with his thumbs.

 

She climbs off of him and unfastens his trousers, pulling off his shoes and socks and then shucking the trouser legs off of him in one swift motion. She’s a bit gentler when it comes to his underwear, recognizing that it’s in her best interest to go slowly.

 

He’s fully erect, his cock is aimed toward his belly button and he’s ready to _go_. She hooks her thumbs in her panties and bends over, and when she stands again she’s naked and standing between his knees and the only way this could get better would be if—

 

Okay, it’s _better_.

 

She’s kneeling now, and supporting the weight of his thighs on her arms so she can get at his balls. Her mouth and lips and tongue are warm and wet, and the pressure she exerts is alternately firm and butter-soft. She looks up at him over the hard-won, still-flat planes of his belly and winks at him with one vividly blue eye.

 

He closes his eyes, and controls his breathing.

 

She releases his legs and leans forward, licking a stripe up the center of his cock; she’s straddling one of his thighs now, and pressing herself against the solid mass of his knee. When she rocks he can feel the moisture of her body, and she sucks his cock into her mouth as though she’s been waiting for this moment for years.

 

It has to be uncomfortable, how she has herself folded almost in two, but she sucks him and rubs against him, and his muscles grow increasingly taut. “Chris?” she asks, raising her head.

 

“Yeah?” he responds thickly, reaching to stroke her hair with sex-stupid hands.

 

“Don’t come yet, baby.”

 

“Get up here,” he says.

 

She gives him a last, loving swipe with her tongue and lips, and then she’s planted her warm, wet cunt on top of his cock. He presses with his hips, and she presses back, and they’re humping against each other, lubricated by her fluids and her saliva.

 

“I want you inside me,” she says, and he nods his enthusiastic agreement.

 

She raises herself up and guides him in. The first touch of his cock to her cunt is overwhelming and he has to breathe himself through it. The control she has over her thigh muscles is staggering because she controls the depth of his penetration merely by relaxing a tiny, tiny bit at a time. Each millimeter is a slow, slick glide that seems to go on forever. Through it all she’s watching his eyes.

 

When they reach the maximum depth, she pauses, rotating her pudenda against his pubic bone. “I want to come tonight, Chris,” she whispers.

 

“I want that, too, One,” he says, watching her through slitted eyes.

 

“Yeah?” she asks. She pinches one of her nipples, and he shivers. “Do you want me to move, Chris?”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

She’s riding him, slowly at first, and then they’re moving together, picking up speed and force, and then he hears it: a squeak that sounds as though it issued from the cavernous maw of a 500 kilo rat.

 

“What… was _that_?” One asks, all pink and breathless.

 

Not one of the questions one desires to hear during sex, but he’s fairly certain she’s not referring to him. They pause for a moment, then shrug and return to the business at hand.

 

She moves forward, her hips undulating, and he rises to meet her, and the bed—for it _is_ the bed, the sound reverberates right through the frame—responds with another bloodcurdling squawk.

 

She stops moving, and he puts his hands on her hips. “Just ignore it,” he says, and she leans down to kiss him. He pulls her forward so her breasts swing just overhead, just out of reach. He has to strain upwards to take a nipple in his mouth, plump and sweet and tempting as a grape.

 

One lifts her breast, supporting it as though she were feeding him something life sustaining, and he uses his teeth on her, on the very tip, soothing the small sting with the flat of his tongue. She gasps and sighs, and begins to rock above him for the brief time it takes for the bed to shriek again.

 

He lets her nipple pop out of his mouth and she pushes herself up, looking supremely annoyed. “Has your bed ever made this noise before?”

 

“I’ve only ever flown it solo,” he says, and she gives him a look that says he hasn’t answered her question. “No, it hasn’t.”

 

“Well, it needs to _stop_ ,” she says, punctuating her sentence with a vicious hip thrust.

 

“Yes, _sir_ ,” he says, responding with a thrust of his own, and then they’re wrapped up in each other again.

 

 _Reek-reek-reek_ …

 

It’s like being serenaded by thousands of synchronized crickets.

 

 _Reek-reek-reek…_

She rotates her hips, a small, subtle movement that nevertheless leaves them gasping after a couple of strokes. For a few blissful moments, the only sound is that of flesh against flesh and their labored breathing.

 

As soon as she risks resuming any forward momentum— _REEK-REEK-REEK!_

She stops again, sighs. They glare at each other in mutual frustration, pausing only to exchange furious, biting kisses.

 

He distracts her by slipping a hand between them and stroking her clit; when she’s looking sufficiently dazed he flips them so she’s on her back. He braces himself against the headboard with one arm and uses his other arm to get leverage above her, and then he does his damnedest to ensure that she won’t hear anything but her pulse hammering. He’s not usually this aggressive with a new partner, but judging by her heavy-lidded, fuck-blown eyes and the way she’s using every bit of her strength to strain herself against him, to pull him closer, she doesn’t object.

 

Her sighs and moans increase in pitch and volume, and he grins. “Want me?” he taunts her, still maintaining his brutal pace.

 

She’s beyond speech, hyperventilating and nodding jerkily. The tension in her body ratchets up and up and up, and fuck if he can’t feel her orgasm before it even starts. _There_ , he thinks, as she contracts around him, and then his vision goes white.

 

He’s only dimly aware of an explosion of noise and the sensation of falling, and then he’s collapsing on her, panting and shaking with exertion.

 

“Chris?” One says in an uncharacteristically diffident voice when his breathing returns to something approximating normal. “I think we broke your bed.”

 

\-----

 

As it turns out, the bed isn’t broken; one of the ancient wood slats supporting the mattress shattered, tilting the mattress to perhaps a twenty-degree angle. Once they’ve recovered somewhat they disassemble the frame of the bed, stacking the pieces against the wall. The half tester headboard only separates from the wall after a fight, but working together they’re able to eliminate the bed from the list of potential threats.

 

“You’re awfully brave, moving furniture in the nude,” One teases him; they’re moving the mattress to its new position in the center of the room, unsupported by any noisy, squeaky, collapsing frame.

 

He shrugs. “I like the view.”

 

“Mmm, me, too,” she purrs before collapsing onto the mattress. “C’mere,” she says, holding out her arms to him; she yawns.

 

He sinks a now-unfamiliar distance to his mattress, which is a little jarring. “I thought that your superior Ilyrian physiology made you less susceptible to fatigue than a Terran.”

 

She puts her arms around him. “It generally does, unless I’ve expended greater _eh-eh-en_ ergy—,” she says, as another yawn nearly splits her head in two, “—than usual.”

 

This statement pleases him inordinately. “I’m pretty spent myself.”

 

She reaches down to cup his balls in her hand; it’s a surprise but gently done, and he doesn’t have the energy to do much more than lie there. As tired as they both are, the gesture is not so much a claim or a demand for more sex as an offering of comradely support, and he kisses her forehead. She falls asleep with her head on his shoulder, still cradling him in her slim, cool palm.


	4. Chapter 4

One is not a cuddler. This shouldn’t be news to him, but she fell asleep on his shoulder; he kind of thought she’d stay there.

 

When he wakes up she _isn’t_ there, and he goes from semi-conscious to cold-shower-alert in the space of a heartbeat.

 

He raises his head from the pillow and in the grey predawn there she is, compressed into a long, slender column on the far starboard side of the mattress. She’s fixed like a limpet at the very edge; he even jiggles the mattress a little to see if she moves, and she doesn’t.

 

“Was it something I said?” he asks her when she begins to awaken.

 

“About what?” she asks.

 

“Are you trying to get away from me?”

 

She scowls over her shoulder at him, and he shouldn’t find it adorable, but her face is puffy with sleep and her oddly short hair forms an untidy aureole around her head. “I don’t understand.”

 

“You’re all the way over here.” He scoots the width of the bed to bite her shoulder.

 

“I’m used to sleeping this way; not a lot of room on a ship.”

 

He spoons behind her, nudging her thigh up, pushing his half-hard cock against her. “I’m not complaining.”

 

She arches her back, bringing him into closer contact; her hand goes between her legs, stroking him, pressing him against her, and he goes quickly from half-hard to fully erect.

 

She shifts her hips, raising her thigh higher, guiding him in. She’s wet and hot, and she has the flexibility of a dancer; he’s lifting her leg higher, has her knee pressed nearly to her shoulder so he can watch as his cock moves in and out of her. He watches, riveted, as his hips continue to move, seemingly of their own volition. This is hotter than anything he’s ever seen on the x-net, because it’s _her_ , and it’s _him_ (and it may have to tide him over for _months,_ the little voice in his head whispers).

 

She licks the pads of her fingers and begins to stroke her clit, and he shudders, driving into her harder. He’s going to have to slow down, though, or this will be over, or at least his more active role will be.

 

He forces himself to stop moving, aside from an involuntary thrust here and there, and covers her hand with his. “Let me,” he says, and after a pause she moves her fingers aside.

 

“Like this,” she says, and presses his fingertips to the very root of her clit, above the clitoral hood, deep beneath the skin. She pushes his fingers down, harder than he would have done, and writhes beneath him as he does it. “Oh, Chris,” she says, her voice choked.

 

“You like that?” he teases her, a little strangled himself.

 

She nods, and he keeps it up. Keeps _both_ up, as it were; he churns his hips behind her.

 

She tenses suddenly, gasping, and he loses his shit. _Goddamn_ , he thinks, and then, _holyfuckingshit_. His balls contract and the tremors go from his hairline to his toes.

 

When his eyes roll forward again, when he can see her instead of the Warp-9 starfield, his first impulse is to apologize. “Don’t move,” she says, cutting him off, and then adds: “Except for your fingers.” He presses her clit as her hips rock forward against his hand, backward against his softening cock.

 

“Oh, yes, there,” she says, panting. “Harder.”

 

He complies, and her back arches, her head thrown back against his shoulder. She cries out, her body strains and spasms and then she goes limp against him.

 

He waits until her eyes are open again before sticking his fingers into his mouth and sucking them, and she gives him the most deliciously feral smile he’s ever seen; if the Klingons saw that look they’d never dare scuttle out into the Neutral Zone.

 

\------------

 

“ _Ohhhh_ … don’t go,” she says in a sleep-husky voice, rolling over to grab at him.

 

“I’m going out to get breakfast. I’ll be right back,” he whispers, wondering why he’s whispering.

 

“Don’t they deliver?” she whines; he’s never heard her whine before, not even when recovering from serious wounds in sickbay. “Come back to bed.” She’s got a strong grip on his wrist, intent on reeling him in, even though her eyes are still closed.

 

“Let go, or you’ll have to get dressed and come with me.”

 

She cracks open one eye and releases him. “Hurry back,” she says, and he chuckles.

 

She’s asleep before he even reaches the bedroom door.

 

\------------

 

He’d half expected her to be in her full dress uniform when he returned, so it’s a double treat that she’s still in bed (technically ‘on mattress’), still nude and muzzy. Her hair’s wet, but he can hardly begrudge her access to water showers after being on restricted usage for so long.

 

“I wish you’d have waited for me to shower with you,” is all that he says.

 

“You say that as though it’s my last shower; I have not yet begun to bathe.” She stretches luxuriantly beneath the top sheet; the linens are fresh. She was busy while he was out.

 

He hands her a cup of coffee (brown) and a bagel. They’re camped out on his mattress, since One doesn’t trust any of his rented furniture. This lends a sort of Roman decadence to the proceedings, reclining and eating and fucking all in the same place, intermittently draped in sheets.

 

“I haven’t had this much meat in ages,” she says, leaning on her elbow and tucking into her bagel, schmeered with cream cheese and capers and stacked high with whisper-thin, melon-pink shavings of smoked salmon. She looks up at him, mid-bite. “Get your mind out of the gutter,” she says primly, precise diction intact despite the wad of bagel in her mouth.

 

He’s grinning at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

She sniffs derision at him.

 

“Besides, it’s lox, not meat.”

 

“Flesh, then,” she says. She raises an eyebrow at him, annoyed. “ _What?_ ”

 

“I’m enjoying this side of you, One. I’ve never seen you this Terran before: sleepy, hungry—”

 

“Horny?” she adds.

 

“ _Especially_ horny.” He leers appreciatively.

 

“You haven’t had _reason_ to see me this way before.” She gives him a look saying plainer than words that he has no one to blame for this sad state of affairs but himself, and she licks cream cheese from her fingers.

 

He does what any self-respecting commander would do: shifts the blame to his chain of command. “That is a serious flaw in Starfleet’s command structure.”

 

“You’re the one at HQ; _do_ something about it,” she says, rather offhandedly as she takes a sip of her coffee.

 

“No, no, I’m at the _Academy_ , which is the polar opposite of being at HQ. _Nothing_ happens at the Academy that affects the ‘fleet.”

 

“Horseshit,” she says, imitating his central California accent; _take that, Louw_ , he thinks suddenly, fiercely. _That one she got from me_. “You’re less than a kilometer away.”

 

“The Academy is a backwater.”

 

“Good thing you’re getting a brand new ship at the end of your tour, then,” she says archly, refusing to feel sorry for him.

 

“It’s going to be a long two years.” He shoves his hair back with impatient fingers.

 

“So was your tour on the Wellington, and yet you somehow emerged unscathed.” Chris and Phil have been reminiscing about the Wellington and the narcissistic Captain Jessop for years now.

 

“Watch yourself, Captain; when I _do_ get to HQ I may appoint you Academy CO.”

 

“What makes you think I’d take the flag?” The elegant arch of her eyebrows nearly meets her hairline.

 

“You’d turn down Admiral? Even if it was me offering it to you?”

 

“If the choice was between Academy CO and retirement, I’d choose retirement… _sir_. Regardless of who signed the papers.” She softens her words with a smile.

 

“You’re not making me feel better about my current assignment,” he says, and she shrugs, unrepentant.

 

“You’re breaking my heart, Chris. The Federation flagship, your next command, is up for final assembly at Utopia Planitia as we speak, and you want me to pity you for temporarily flying a desk?”

 

“I see; the Academy is fine for me, but not good enough for Number One of Ilyria, is that it?” He’s picking a fight and he knows it; she’s going to be gone in twenty-four hours and he’s going to be stuck on Earth alone. It’s stupid, but he wants to see her at least a little unhappy about it, too.

 

Her eyes flash at him, and he begins to think he might be in real trouble. “No; if I had the opportunity you’ve _earned_ I’d take it, and gladly. But to end my career at the Academy, with no hope of getting back out there? I’d rather command a prison barge.”

 

“You’d really leave the service.”

 

“I hate to break this to you, Chris, but while we may fall in love with the ‘fleet, she doesn’t return our feelings.”

 

“What else would you do?”

 

“The warp cruiser lines are always beating the bushes for experienced captains.” She shrugs. “Sooner or later the ‘fleet will cut me loose, and I would prefer it happened on my terms.”

 

“Jesus, you’re a fatalist.” He takes a swig of his coffee.

 

“I prefer ‘realist.’”

 

“Is that how you handle your relationships?” he asks. He begins lightly, but once the words leave his lips he realizes that he wants to know the answer. “Leave before they leave you?”

 

He sees his harder tone register; she sets her jaw and gives him the look he’s seen recently on her mission analysis vids, usually when she coolly stares down some wayward Klingon commander along the Neutral Zone. “I could ask you the same thing.”

 

The silence stretches on and on. Finally he holds up his hands in surrender. “Whoa, hey, I was teasing you, One,” he says; it’s the coward’s way out and he’s not proud of it. “I’m sorry; this is more of a _third_ date discussion,” he says, wanting to bring back the ease of the morning.

 

“I wouldn’t know,” she replies, and he doesn’t know whether she’s serious or making a point; he sees a tense little pucker at the corner of her mouth, and he thinks he may have drawn blood. It’s not as satisfying as the idea had seemed moments earlier.  “I’ve never been in a long-term relationship. I’ve had shore leave liaisons here and there; never anything serious.”

 

“Is that what you want? A shore leave liaison?”

 

“I want… whatever we can have.” She’s being so cautious; it makes him want to take her by the shoulders and shake loose some of that innate good sense she uses so expertly on the bridge. Someone’s got to take the next step; it shouldn’t be this hard to give voice to their hopes and intentions. They’ve got thirteen decorations for valor between them, but he’ll be damned if that translates into romantic success.

 

To be fair, though, she did make the first move. It’s his turn.

 

He takes her face between his palms. In a soft, deep voice he says: “Here’s what _I_ want: I want _you_. I want to expect you. I want you to be wet and impatient as soon as you see Saturn, and about ready to fly apart when you hit the Spaceport. I want you burning with anticipation, imagining my hands on you, my mouth on you, my cock in you. I want you to think about me when you’re gone, and I want to talk to you when you’re in range.”

 

Her eyes glaze over, and her jaw goes slack. She’s nodding, almost mechanically, no doubt picturing his hands, his mouth, his cock engaged as described.

 

He grins suddenly, irreverently. “In fact, I want to burn up secure channels with unmitigated aural filth when we’re apart. I want to exchange frankly pornographic text messages that would make the censors faint if we didn’t have the clearance to get around them.

 

“What do you think?” he asks, kissing her parted mouth, sliding his tongue between her cool, smooth teeth.

 

“I think I can do that,” she says when he draws back.

 

He presses her back onto the mattress and shows her explicitly what he can do with his mouth, and her response is sufficient to send any number of censors into cardiac arrest.

 

\----------

 

Still later, she’s in bed, lying on her belly. He’s next to her, stroking her skin, drawing patterns in the dew of perspiration at the small of her back.

 

She’s got a pink mark on the back of her neck, a birthmark; it looks like the result of a hard slap, and he traces it with his fingers. “I’ve never noticed this before.”

 

“That’s because I usually wear my hair long.”

 

“I think it’s cute.” He leans forward, kisses the mark, dabs at it with the tip of his tongue.

 

“I’ll give you exactly three days to stop that,” she says in a sleepy voice.

 

“Just checking to see if it was any sweeter than the rest of you.”

 

She snorts.

 

“It wasn’t,” he adds, helpfully.

 

“Since I’m not sweet at all I’m hardly surprised.”

 

“Shh. This is a scientific process.”

 

“It’s merely an overgrowth of blood vessels under the skin.”

 

“Nope. It’s proof that you’re not perfect.”

 

She laughs then. “You worked side by side with me for seven years, and you need _proof_ that I’m not perfect? I’m sure you’ve seen every one of my countless imperfections, Chris.”

 

He kisses the back of her neck again. “They used to call them ‘stork bites,’ back when people told children that babies were delivered by the stork,” he says, as though she hadn’t spoken.

 

She looks over her shoulder at him, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “It was preferable to terrorize children with tales of intermittently-carnivorous waterfowl than simply to explain sexual reproduction?”

 

“I never said it was logical, Mr. Spock.”

 

She reaches behind her and pinches his ass, and he retaliates by tousling her hair. “So what’s the story with this? I’ve never had to shave _my_ head for a diplomatic function.”

 

She sighs. “My yeoman got himself into some… difficulty on a shore leave excursion. It was a choice between throwing myself on the mercy of their court or putting in a request for a new yeoman.” One shrugs. “Interplanetary diplomatic incident averted, paperwork avoided, hair grows back.”

 

“Grew back pretty quickly, all things considered.”

 

“Phil helped; he had a hypo to get me past the awkward growing-out stage.”

 

“Couldn’t you have gotten Louw to shave his head instead?”

 

She scoffs and rolls over, facing him. “On what grounds? Gender?”

 

“Well, _yeah_.”

 

“I asked myself what you would do in the situation, and did that.”

 

“Really?” He’s pleased, but self-conscious about it; he tucks his chin to his chest.

 

“Louw did offer, but, really, to take him up on it? To ask my exec to do something I wouldn’t do because I was too much of a _girl_?”

 

“You’re exactly the right amount of a girl,” he says, leering, and she leans over and pecks a kiss on his nose.

 

“Spoken like a man who is no longer my CO. And I thought you liked my hair like this.”

 

“I do, but I wouldn’t have asked you to do it.”

 

“Perhaps you wouldn’t, but Starfleet _did_ ,” she says, and now there’s an edge to her voice that hasn’t been there before. “Is that going to be a problem?”

 

He sighs. “No, that’s not going to be a problem. You did the right thing; I’m just feeling a little overprotective.”

 

“I can’t do anything about that, Chris.”

 

“No, you can’t; I’m going to have to adjust.” He slides over a little, coaxing her into resting her head on his chest. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re not in my chain of command any more.”

 

She combs her fingers through his chest hair, pausing to use the tips of her fingernails on his nipple. “There are other benefits, too…” she says, practically purring as she says it.

 

His stomach picks that moment to growl.

 

“What time is it?” she asks, raising her head.

 

He squints at the chronometer. “1700.”

 

“We didn’t eat lunch, did we?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“You must be starving.” She gives him a loud, smacking kiss on the belly and gets out of bed. “Up you go.”

 

“Where are we going?” he asks, even as he hauls himself upright for the first time in hours.

 

“I’m going to the bathroom and you’re going to order our dinner.”

 

\-----------

 

At about 2030, Chris’s communicator chimes.

 

“Good evening, Chris,” Phil Boyce says; his gaze darts around the periphery of the screen, and Chris knows what, or rather, _who_ , he’s looking for.

 

“Hello, Phil; what can I do for you?”

 

“Wanted to see if we could get together for breakfast before we ship out tomorrow,” Phil says. “I’m dying for some steak and eggs, and you know there won’t be any on the ship.”

 

“That sounds great.”

 

“I’ve been trying to find the captain, to invite her; if you see her—”

 

Chris looks a question at One, safely offscreen; she rolls her eyes, grinning. “I’ll pass the word along.”

 

Phil brightens. “Oh, have you seen her?”

 

“G’night, Phil,” he says firmly; the doctor, undeterred, grins widely.

 

“See you tomorrow,” Boyce says.

 

Chris pushes the “kill” button on the communicator, ending the call, and sighs loudly.

 

One comes up behind him and puts her arms around his neck. “I guess we’re fairly predictable.”

 

“It’s not that,” he says, kissing her arm. “I’ve always been the one doing the leaving.”

 

“And you really hate being left behind.”

 

He clears his throat. “Yeah.” He laughs, enjoying the fact that she’s perceptive enough to pick up on it, that her feelings aren’t hurt. “Feels like failure.”

 

She nods. “You’ll be back out there before long.”

 

“And you’ll be here in a few months to pick up Cadet Kirk. And back again a few weeks later when you drop him off. Is it too early for me to put my name on your dance card?”

 

She looks blankly at him, and he explains. “Old Terran custom. It means that I’d be claiming your time in advance of all the other guys who’ll want it.”

 

“Ah, yes, all those ‘other guys.’” She doesn’t quite roll her eyes, but she shakes her head, putting her hand on his cheek and leaning in for a kiss. “You may claim my time, but as an inscrutable alien I reserve the right to disregard your silly Terran customs when they inconvenience me.”

 

“Deal.” He pulls her down to sit on his lap.

 

\-----------

 

Lavish public farewell embraces are for civilians, Chris thinks as he escorts her to the transporter.

 

“One... watch your six.”

 

“I will. You do the same.”

 

They shake hands like colleagues, but he likes to think that most colleagues haven’t got contusions from pinning each others’ wrists to the floor during enthusiastic intercourse. “Comm me when you can; you’ve got my address.”

 

“The comm works both ways; you’ve had _my_ number for quite some time.” Her expression remains completely grave, save for the glint of humor in her eyes. She is the first to let go and steps onto the transporter pad.

 

He watches as she shimmers away to nothing.

 

He tries not to imagine what she’s transporting into. A new assignment, a new mission. New dangers, but new possibilities, too. His stomach twists with jealousy: he’s languishing here planetside, and she’s taking his old ship to parts presumably unknown. He feels inexplicably like a guy whose best friend is taking his girlfriend out for a night on the town, and he wonders idly whether One is the best friend or the girlfriend.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Yorktown Treatment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/210047) by [snarkypants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkypants/pseuds/snarkypants)




End file.
